Sweet Dreams
by Necoto
Summary: Uchiha Itachi did not love anyone, but maybe there was a time in his life when he had felt something close to love for her, though it was never love.


Sweet Dreams

_By: Necoto_

**Disclaimer: Naruto does not belong to me.**

**-----**

_Among demons, there is no love; there exists something close to it, but there is never any love._

Their eyes locked, and he could see a silent fear in hers, quieted by her acceptance of the inevitable. A pang of feeling tugged at both their hearts, though what they each felt was in no way similar to the other. He walked slowly towards her, his usually obsidian eyes which were bleeding red from the Sharingan narrowed not by anger but by habit. She did not move nor made any attempt to do so. Her heart remained calm, beating normally in her chest, not stirred by unfelt emotions.

His right hand gripped his katana, its blade somewhat dulled by the still wet blood that adorned it. He watched as her eyes trailed to his blade and back up to his, a newfound fright and realization settling within her black orbs. Still, even with solid evidence right before her very eyes, she felt no desire to escape from him.

"You killed them." It was a simple statement to which he gave no reply. Her voice was steady, void of unnecessary stuttering and quivering. It was a relief to not be forced to hear irrational screaming and useless pleading one final time that night. He was thankful for the small peace of mind her silence offered, but he refused to be led astray from his path by mere gratitude alone.

"And you've come to kill me." He nodded, and as he looked into her eyes, pure black and untainted by sin and the death that came along with the Sharingan, he felt a slight twinge of an unknown emotion. Perhaps it was envy, or something akin to it, almost border lining jealousy. She had not been plunged through the hellish world that his mind currently resided in; she had not seen the satanic sights that were unwillingly engraved in his memory, carved deeply in his black soul; she had not been treated like a disposable tool, a very valuable one but still disposable nonetheless. She had lived in a sheltered world while he was constantly facing death. A hint of rage pulsed through his veins, but he pushed it aside. He did not hate her. He did not feel anything for or towards her.

He continued towards her, his goal steady and unwavering, his carefully build countenance blank. His sword felt light in his hand as his grip on it tightened. There was no remorse, no guilt in his heart for what he was about to do. If there really was a Hell, then he was destined for it—and he was perfectly fine with it. After all, the very worst kinds of demons were the filthy humans that he had been forced to live with all his life. He, himself, was living proof of that.

"Goodbye," he said, his voice almost robotic, as if he was no longer living, no longer human. Then again, perhaps he really wasn't, at least not anymore. He raised his right hand, the metal stained with the blood of the Uchiha Clan and his own lost innocence. Within a blink of an eye, he struck her down, silently without so much as a whimper of pain from her. And once again, for the second time in the dying night, he found himself grateful for her silence.

A soft pitter-patter of feet could be heard in the distant background along with a soft panicked voice calling out "Kaa-san! Tou-san!" warning him that Sasuke was coming. Turning around, he clutched the sword in his hand tighter. His work was not yet done. _'Almost,'_ he thought, _'Almost.'_ The door to the room slid open, and he prepared himself for screaming.

-----

He held a white chrysanthemum in his hand as he stood over her grave under the moonlit night sky. It had been nearly three weeks, and things had finally calmed down somewhat enough for people to go back to their daily lives—except for him, of course. He couldn't go back; he was beyond forgiveness, carrying sins too great and too dark for atonement. But he was perfectly fine with that.

Kneeling down, he placed the flower at the base of her tombstone, which was a pale white, exactly like her soul, he supposed. He closed his eyes—which were a rare black, seeing as he hardly ever turned off his bloodline—in a moment of something extremely akin to prayer. He was not praying for her though, merely giving his gratitude for her gift that had given him a peace of mind, no matter how short it was.

He was not ungrateful, after all.

"Rest in peace, Mother."

_Among demons, there is no love; there exists something close to it, but there is never any love._


End file.
